The Beach at Doonshean

by Penny Feeny

  It didn’t help that Bel’s premature arrival had induced a terrifying wave of grief that confounded her expectations. When you have been climbing out of a pit you don’t expect the hopeful prospect ahead of you to be a mirage; that you will be knocked back down again. At least she had easy access to medication. She knew what to take; she’d learned to cope once before and she could do it again.

  It was particularly ironic because the baby was supposed to be a turning point. She had moved to a different city and she was in love with a man – a few years younger and several degrees wilder – who continued to surprise and elate her. Leo, as she was to discover over years of unearthing him from squalid drinking holes, was attracted to what he called grit and she called grime. But back then, in the beginning, she had fallen for his ability to spin romance out of sawdust, to transform any place they might find themselves into somewhere poetic and life-enhancing.

  Friends considered them an unlikely pairing, but Julia didn’t want to replicate her former, traditional life. At medical school her future had seemed predictable: she and William pursuing their careers in tandem, bringing up their family. Once this had been thrown into disarray, why not embrace the opposite? That was the joy of Leo: he’d been able to sweep her out of herself in a way no one else could. She’d believed in his work as passionately as he did, and encouraging him as his career bloomed had been hugely exciting. The downward spiral less so.

  She sipped her coffee and looked up expectantly each time the door swung open, but there was no sign of Bel. Another text message winged into her phone.

  Where are you?

  She frowned. She’d given Bel directions to the hotel. Surely this was the question she should be asking. Then, reading more closely, she saw that the message hadn’t come from Bel at all, but from Leo. The nerve of him! It was bad enough that he’d driven her out of France; her present whereabouts were none of his business.

  Julia had put up with the groupies Leo attracted for years. Art students mostly, in gothic make-up and swathes of black, in thrall (as she’d once been) to his combination of iconoclasm and authority; intense, ambitious young women who liked to drink late and didn’t need to get up early. It had come to a head with the girl who’d wanted to be found out, who’d left cryptic phone messages and taunting mementoes of her visits. Julia finally acted when, plumping up the sofa cushions in the studio, she’d found an unfamiliar pair of earrings. She’d confronted Leo over supper.

  ‘I would never wear these,’ she’d said, dropping the two brazen Coptic crosses onto his plate as he was about to fork up a mouthful of chicken.

  He laid down his cutlery and picked them out of his food, glancing at the neat enamel studs in Julia’s ears. ‘No,’ he agreed.

  ‘Whatever I need to be told, I’d rather it came from you. So go on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me who they belong to?’

  ‘Probably because I can’t remember.’ He produced the wry smile that he relied upon to extract himself from trouble, but Julia had become resistant to it.

  ‘She’s escaped your memory already? Nice one, Leo.’ She rose from the table and scraped her own dinner into the bin; she wasn’t feeling hungry.

  ‘Look, Julia, your imagination’s running away with you. Why the hell are you bothered about a pair of fucking earrings?’ He’d cradled his arm around her waist and buried his face in her neck.

  But the evidence had been cumulative and once you knew for certain, whatever the excuses, whatever crisis of career or ego he’d been trying to assuage, you couldn’t back-pedal. She’d found out who the girl was – a young and pushy events organiser, with the sly eyes, plump buttocks and high round breasts of a seventeenth-century painting – but she’d made a point of forgetting her name.

  She deleted Leo’s text.

  10

  The Breakdown

  Julia had given up watching the door. When a burst of spring air ruffled the pages of her newspaper, she wasn’t looking in its direction. She felt a light tap on her shoulder, a kiss on her cheek. There was a whiff of smoke and alcohol too, though that could have been emanating from the coat – the purple coat that someone had thrown out once before, to Oxfam, and still lacked buttons.

  ‘Bel! You got here at last!’ She rose to embrace her and their bones clashed.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. It was, like, one thing after another, a whole catalogue…’

  ‘Never mind that now, let me look at you.’

  Bel had never been the kind of pliant, amenable daughter other mothers boasted of. She was scatty and unreliable, with a complicated attitude to food. But she had a generous nature and charm in abundance and Julia had nearly lost her. The memory of the frail body plugged into drips in the isolation ward still made her shiver. Bel wilted a little under her scrutiny, knowing she was looking for signs of good colour and plumpening cheeks.

  ‘Oh, darling, you’ve bags under your eyes.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep very well…’

  ‘Then we must get you back to the cottage so I can look after you.’ Julia took the handle of Rachael’s suitcase, stuffed carelessly with Bel’s things. ‘I’m in the car park at the side.’

  ‘Can’t I have a cup of tea first? I’m parched.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got no money left.’

  ‘But I have.’ Bel hailed the waitress and pulled out her purse with its jangling bells.

  Julia glanced inside it. ‘Gosh, is that all Matt gave you?’

  ‘I had to pay for the room last night. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose it’s only until the banks open tomorrow morning. The transfer will have come through by then. Honestly, twenty-four-hour banking is a complete joke when what you need is cash in hand.’

  Bel ordered her tea and sank into an adjacent chair. ‘Mum, I hope you didn’t just invite me to bring you cash?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘So why? And why did you come here in the first place? What was that about?’

  Julia said, ‘Aren’t you forever telling me to be more spontaneous? Especially now I don’t have a job to go to. Like you, for example. Spontaneously leaping into a car with strangers. I was quite worried.’

  ‘Not half as worried as we were about you,’ said Bel, her face shining with self-righteousness. ‘Me and Matt and Rachael, we thought you’d been abducted or murdered by a psycho in France. Dorothy Culshaw was doing her nut, convinced you had some terminal illness, and apparently the police were, like, chill out, it’s probably nothing (which it was) but which was just the kind of false assurance that sets your cage rattling. So it’s not me this time, it’s you. You’re up to something and you have to come clean.’

  ‘I’d have thought it was obvious what I was up to.’

  ‘What?’

  But Julia couldn’t answer. Something was squeezing her chest, hampering her breathing. A shaking began in her shoulders, beyond her control. She hunted for a tissue and pressed it to her mouth to stifle the gasps.

  ‘Mum! What is it? What’s the matter?’ The tea arrived: a white pot on a tray, a jug of milk, a strainer. ‘I can leave it,’ Bel said. ‘If you want to get back.’

  Julia wished the wings of the chair would give her more cover to hide behind. Tears were tracking a course of their own; she couldn’t quench them. Why, she thought, why is this happening to me when I’ve managed so well up to now?

  ‘I’m going to the Ladies,’ she said to Bel. ‘There’s no hurry. You drink your tea and by then I’ll be fine to drive.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No. You should mind your case. I need to get a grip. We’ll talk later.’

  ‘But, Mum…’

  Julia blundered past the other tables and into Reception, looking for the sign to the toilets. A woman at the desk asked if she was all right and she brushed her off. Speech had been replaced by a panic-stricken choking. The awful reckoning was finally catching up with her. That stupid incident yesterday with the rabbi
t had only been the beginning.

  In her profession she’d often had to give bad news. And the reactions, especially from parents, whose expectations were so high, were almost always the same. She knew them well: stunned disbelief, denial, anger, guilt. She had experienced every single one herself. Disbelief and denial she’d been obliged to conquer, but in the depths of her subconscious, rarely brought up and examined, guilt and rage still battled. Perhaps if you are content in your life, you don’t look back at what might have been, but she had forced herself to make this journey.

  Two days ago, on her visit to Doonshean beach, she’d stood facing the sea, exposing herself to the salt-laden wind. She’d watched the rhythmic pull of the tide as it scooped away at the sand, showing no sign of the power beneath its surface. The swell of the encroaching waves was gentle, an occasional burst of white at the rim. A couple were walking their dog on the cliffs above. A lone man was bird-watching through binoculars. The scene was soothing and Julia, dry-eyed, had felt a sense of peace. She’d thought: I’ve done the right thing, coming back here, laying ghosts to rest. She blamed herself for what happened to William – if only she had been with him… But striding across the wet sand at sunset she’d felt she was conquering the past.

  Which made it all the more distressing to find her emotions now ambushed. In the privacy of the Ladies she kept flushing the toilet to drown the sounds of her weeping, the noisy gulping of air. A knock came on the cubicle door, which she thought might be Bel until an Irish voice said: ‘Are you all right in there?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I just need a minute or two…’ She should compose herself; she’d had plenty of practice. Balancing on the edge of the seat, she surveyed her face in her make-up mirror, wiping away the sooty trail of mascara. She kept waiting for the tap of retreating heels. After a while she supposed the woman must have left quietly, without her hearing. She unlocked the door and went to wash her hands in the basin, focusing on rubbing the liquid soap into every finger joint, every wrinkle of skin, as if she were preparing to examine a patient. The woman had not gone away, she was hovering just behind her.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need anything? I could—’

  ‘I’m not staying here,’ Julia said.

  ‘No, but if you’ve had some bad news, maybe a seat in the Residents’ Lounge would give you some breathing space for a while.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind but I’ll be fine.’ She put on a bright false smile that wouldn’t fool anyone and stalked through the door and back to the bar.

  Bel twisted in her seat and reddened as if she’d been caught misbehaving. ‘Mum, what happened? Is it something I’ve done?’

  ‘No, darling,’ said Julia, seizing the suitcase. ‘But can we go please? I’ve made enough of a fool of myself.’

  ‘It’s because you bottle things up,’ said Bel, keeping a slightly breathless pace. ‘You want to be in control the whole time and it doesn’t work, you know. It’s like trapped wind isn’t it, it can be so painful, and you don’t even know how you did it and then the release—’

  ‘Isabel,’ said Julia. ‘Please stop it.’

  *

  In the car her mother’s knuckles gleamed on the steering wheel. Bel snatched surreptitious glances at her profile. She didn’t look troubled any more except for a twitch along her jaw as if she were clenching it too tight and the muscles were rebelling. Beyond her head was a view of the coastline, the long grass rippling in the fields, the sea sparkling and serene.

  In true parental fashion, although Julia wouldn’t answer Bel’s questions, she had plenty of her own: ‘I’m still confused about what happened last night,’ she said. ‘I mean, why didn’t you stick to your original plan?’

  ‘It seemed like a good idea, getting a lift,’ said Bel. ‘It should have been much quicker. How could I know the car was going to break down?’

  ‘Lucky, I suppose, that you were near a hotel.’

  ‘Actually we had to crawl the last few miles till we made it: crank, thump, clatter. It was quite scary.’

  ‘What was it? Clutch? Gearbox? Oil pump?’

  ‘Oh God!’ exclaimed Bel. ‘I don’t know anything about engines!’

  ‘But it got fixed easily enough?’

  ‘Oh yes, no problem.’

  ‘So what was it that held you up again this morning?’

  ‘The guys had to stop off somewhere to see someone. It was only meant to take five minutes. I think Irish time must be different from ours, don’t you?’

  There was no reason to have lied to her mother, to have invented engine failure – when in fact what had happened was that she’d shared a hotel room with the mad Farrelly brothers and a six-year-old girl who’d subsequently been swapped for a violin. But the difficulty with lies was that once you’d started you felt you had to carry on, adding layers of embroidery. The difficulty with the truth, in this particular instance, was that it was so peculiar.

  The hotel in Adare, a weekend retreat for Dubliners, had all the comforts of an old-fashioned country house: well-upholstered armchairs, walnut wardrobes, four-poster beds. It had also been busy, but there was a family room available and Tom had jumped at it. The night’s reprieve had put him in roguish good humour, cracking jokes and telling stories so tall even Clemmie wouldn’t believe them. She was finally persuaded to go to bed as long as Bel came up to give her a goodnight kiss.

  Afterwards, Tom switched off the side lamp and followed Bel from the room. In the hushed corridor with its deep pile carpet and warm sense of seclusion he coiled his arm around her shoulders. ‘Thank you. You’ve been fantastic with her.’

  ‘No big deal. I like kids.’

  ‘She thinks you’re wonderful, you know. As do I.’

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. We only just met.’

  ‘Can I have a kiss too?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. She felt a light, friendly pressure on her lips and was startled by her own response. It seemed a long time since she had been kissed. Heck, she wanted a proper one even if she was going to regret it later. By the end she was literally breathless.

  ‘Ah, Bel,’ he said, enfolding her. ‘You’ve been our saviour today.’

  Partly because of this moment of intimacy (though how could she tell? They’d also stayed up late and too much unaccustomed alcohol was flooding her system) she’d slept badly, aware of every snuffle from her companions. Her dreams were rough and rampaging; despite the deep soft mattress and fine linen sheets, she wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up black and blue like someone who’d been in a fight.

  In the morning, when they went to settle up after breakfast, Tom’s bold offer came to naught when his card was declined. Kieran stepped in, observing that he might have guessed it. Bel insisted on paying more than her share.

  The mood, as they set off on their final leg, was not celebratory and they drove in silence. A few miles from their destination, the Megane had turned off the road and lumbered up a dirt track. A modern bungalow, with huge windows reflecting the ever-changing skies, stood amid a series of old barns and converted outbuildings. Clemmie clung to Bel and drummed her heels, reluctant to leave her.

  ‘Why don’t I give you my number?’ said Bel. ‘So you can call me whenever you want. I’m here all week same as you.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Tom handed over his phone and she tapped it in.

  Clemmie said, ‘Will you come indoors with me?’

  ‘Okay.’ She thought they’d just be there long enough for the child to feel welcome but the McCauleys insisted on giving them a tour of the workshops where Sean repaired musical instruments. It was nearly an hour before they left again and Clemmie had been replaced with what Tom explained was his mother’s old fiddle.

  The violin sat beside Bel on the back seat. ‘Is your mother very musical?’

  ‘She doesn’t think so,’ said Kieran, ‘but yes, she is. Though she says she never has time to play. This has been hanging around in Sean’s workshop
for months. I took it in when I was last over and she’s not even tried to collect it. She’s probably forgotten where it is. So this is by way of a sweetener for us being late.’

  Were all families the same, Bel wondered: existing in a delicate state of checks and balances, compromise and negotiation? You didn’t want your behaviour to hurt the people closest to you, but your interests were never going to coincide. Now, sitting beside Julia – who would probably ask awkward questions about Matt’s money too – she gripped the phone in her pocket. She’d switched it to silent, but she was alert to vibrations.

  11

  The Violin

  Ronnie had wanted to put on a feast. The lamb was one of Bernie O’Connor’s, so she knew the meat would be pale and tender from a diet of new grass. Before roasting, she spiked it with garlic as Nuala advised, though it seemed to her a pity to drown its subtle flavour. Then she’d baked potatoes and onions and boiled up spring greens. But the greens had gone on wilting to death, the onions had blackened and the potatoes had shrivelled inside jackets so crunchy they could break your teeth. None of the meal was eaten; Anna said to save it. She’d taken the kiddies back home to give them spaghetti hoops.

  The lamb joint, being a whole leg, was too big for the fridge. Ronnie covered it in foil and stowed it in the sideboard on her best meat platter. She could have predicted this. Like dealing with a cow with a difficult labour: your instinct tells you that delivery will be problematic, that you’ll need to call the vet, and yet you cling to foolish hopes of a miracle.

  They’d given a lift to an Englishwoman – that was their excuse. They weren’t dumb, her boys, they knew how to string her along. A little bit of chivalry was pardonable, was it not? ‘The girl didn’t really know where she was going,’ Tom explained. ‘We’ve ended up making a magnificent detour.’